


authenticity

by goukyorin (sashimisusie)



Category: BioShock Infinite
Genre: Blow Jobs, M/M, Originally Posted on Tumblr, response fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-27
Updated: 2014-10-27
Packaged: 2018-02-22 20:21:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 946
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2520557
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sashimisusie/pseuds/goukyorin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Booker knows this man. Or at least, he thinks he does, the ghost of a smile and the imprint of another life lived rushing to fill the empty space between what Booker should know, and what he does know. But he does not remember how he knows this.</p>
            </blockquote>





	authenticity

**Author's Note:**

  * For [inabusmaximus](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=inabusmaximus).



> A response, if you will, to [this gorgeous piece](http://cognitivedissonance.co.vu/post/99717012258/authentic-robert-booker-for-columbiacalling) of (and I quote exactly) "ic pseudo-meta stuff and then pwp" by [hemorrhxge](http://cognitivedissonance.co.vu/).

Booker knows this man.

Or at least, he _thinks_ he does, the ghost of a smile and the imprint of another life lived rushing to fill the empty space between what Booker _should_ know, and what he _does_ know. But he does not remember  _how_ he knows this.

Memory, like love or the pursuit of happiness in the midst of a situation that is anything but, is a fleeting fickle thing. But he is a realist rather than a fatalist—most of the time, anyway—and as unrealistic as being tugged by his lapels into a safe haven by an enigmatic gentleman is, that it's happening is confirmation enough that there exists some manner of relationship between them.

Or rather, there _existed_ a deeper understanding between him and the owner of that coy half-smile. All Booker knows a name, and nothing else. The exact nature of their bond eludes him even as their hands rove across shirt buttons and downwards to unfasten belt buckles. Though his mind calls Lutece a stranger, his body does not seem to make that distinction.

They make short work of what little remains in the way, clothing and words falling by the wayside and discarded for the momentarily more important language of bodies in motion. Mouth pressed hot against parted lips, the swipe of the man's tongue against the chapped skin of his lip, solicits a groan, and then another. As if to reward him for the pleasant verbal reminder of promised carnality, Lutece's hand presses down to stroke between his thighs.

The trail of the trail of fingertips down Booker's body turns from purposeful to inquisitive, tracing over old scars and new bruises with the halting enthusiasm of a child learning to walk, all stops and starts. He had not taken Lutece for inexperienced, not with the way the man palmed the thickness of him but moments ago, yet it is as if the redheaded gentleman is seeing the planes of another body for the first time. Though there is naught but the warm press of bare palms to bare skin holding Booker down, the intensity of the blue-eyed gaze has him feeling akin to a moth being pinned to the corkboard of the carpeted floor.

Booker cannot help but clear his throat, the heat that sends the head of his cock nodding also spreading across his unshaven cheeks in embarrassment. He must not know this man then, for Lutece to study him so closely. The question of whether he does or doesn't is pushed aside when the man acquiesces in his single-minded cataloguing to sear a kiss into his collarbone. The barest hint of teeth marks the spot, and whatever pause in the earlier pace resumes with purpose.

He brings a hand up the curve of the man's neck, tangling fingers in ginger hair to guide Lutece down to slope of his hips. That'll be enough, the motion says, and he accents the message with a tug downwards. An apology murmured with more words than necessary, and an apology accepted in as few words as possible when that smart mouth takes in the length of him. Lutece's tongue traces rough and hot over the head of Booker's cock, drawing a groan unbidden from the core of his chest.

In between trying, and failing spectacularly to control the rock of his hips up and the thrust of his dick against Lutece's throat, he catches sight through lidded gaze of the man studying him intently. The fluttering moth is pinned once more, this time by a pretty mouth wrapped hot and wet around him.

"Knock it off," Booker mutters, willing the man to look anywhere but directly at him. The heat pools at the base of his spine, stroked and caressed forth by hand and tongue, and the insolent stare does nothing for his self-control. There is something obscene about being so closely observed, the intimacy of the act only heightened by eye contact.

Perhaps Lutece understands that much, eyelids fluttering down until blue-eyed stare is but a sliver, and he nearly murmurs in thanks until the man hums wordlessly.  So much for composure, the ever-shrinking rational part of his mind chides him, as he arches his hips up into the vibration. Stranger or not, he wants this— _needs_  this—shameless display of affection, pretended or not.

" _Lutece, I_ —!"

Hands scrabbling for purchase, his attempt to warn the other is lost in a jumble of words dropped and scattered out to sea by the incoming tide of his release. Booker feels, vaguely as if observing from afar, the press of a kiss against the dark trail from his crotch. Drawing in a ragged breath, he blinks open lidded eyes with a phrase on his tongue. It dies in the catch of his throat, when he realizes the absence of the other man.

Where there had been two a moment ago, remains only the one to be seen. He furrows his brow, the pall of awkward settling on his shoulders in the silence of the room and the cooling heat of his pleasure.  Had it been a fever dream, not unlike the vigors that warped his fingers and tore at his skin, or had there _truly_ been someone who'd cared? Even for the slightest blink of a second, even?

Booker bites down on his lower lip, picking up discarded garments and rearranging his clothing to acceptable levels of disarray. There will be time enough for him to consider this, in the vulnerable state when sleep eludes him and the alcohol has not fully sunk in to dull his impulses.

For now, he remembers what he remembers. _(He knows he will remember this)_.


End file.
